The Ghost Ferryer

Just writing for fun. Go easy on me. When a person dies, their light goes out, or so they say. But that’s only true of those who die in peace. Some people die with their eyes wide open. Those burned alive feel flames lick at their skin and thick smoke flood their lungs. In the end, they can’t even scream. Only one thought keeps searing through the ashes: I’m not ready to die. Those stabbed to death in a flurry of blades feel their blood rush out and their strength drain from their fingertips. In their final second, they see the killer’s face, and that face becomes a curse, etched into their bones. When people like that die, their final breath won’t leave them. It becomes a vengeful ghost. What is a ghost? A soul trapped in the moment of its death. Again and again, it relives the agony of dying, with no end and no escape. Time stops at the most painful, hateful, unbearable second, repeating, repeating, repeating, until rage burns away the last trace of humanity. They crawl out from where they died and inflict the pain of their deaths on everyone who comes near. Human law cannot touch ghosts, and blades and bullets cannot scatter their obsessions. And so, a certain group of people emerged. Risking their lives, they recreate the scenes that haunted spirits faced before they died. Using themselves as bait, they step into the fire, the pool of blood, the instant of suffocating despair, and awaken the ghosts’ last shred of humanity. They resolve their anguish and release them from their obsessions. They operate in secret, lying low in the shadows of society. You might pass one on the street, live next door to one, or meet one as a stranger who picks up something you dropped. You don’t know who they are, what they’ve done, or what they’ve shielded you from. If you ask what they’re called: They are ghost wardens.